Sweet
by usrednoci
Summary: It's her, she realizes; she's humming into him, content with one of his arms wrapped around her while he holds open the refrigerator door with the other. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**I've heard that stories like this are the way to win the affections of a certain sheep in the fandom. And, well, I've always wanted a sheep for a friend...**

* * *

He looks so tired. So very weary.

The sagging lines of him arrest her, keep her still and silent on her stool in the kitchen. He hasn't noticed her yet, so she takes the opportunity to study him the way he's always studied her.

Is this how she looks when she's exhausted? Is this how he knows to bring her a refill on her coffee or order food or crack a terrible joke? She'd like to think she's better at hiding her tiredness, at appearing to remain alert and ready, strong. But he's always seen through her. So yes, this is probably exactly what he's seen so many times.

Her heart aches with it, with the four years she made him wait, the four years she made herself wait for this good man.

Not anymore.

"Hey."

His head snaps up, weariness disappearing from his features the instant he sees her. The change hits her in the gut, leaves her breathless. It's not that he's hiding it for her sake. It's that _this_ _is_ _what_ _she_ _does_ _to_ _him_.

Face breaking open in a smile that makes her heart pound, he strides toward her, keys landing in the bowl next to the door, jacket dropping on the table beside it. She's wrapped up in him before she realizes what's happened, surrounded by strong arms and a firm chest and his smell - woodsy and sweet and musky, hints of coffee and old books infusing the soft skin of his neck.

"Hey," he snuffles into her ear, nose brushing at her temple, breath tickling at the short curls along her hairline.

She winds her arms around his neck, pushing her body into his until they're fully aligned - a perfect fit. And then she stands with him, quiet and together. All she needs right here.

"How'd it go?" she asks softly when his hands have started to wander up and down her back, calming and gentle, making her feel safe until his fingers begin running along her waistband. That brings a whole other feeling to the surface, and she shivers in his arms, her hips meeting his.

He chuckles, but even through the richness of the sound, the pleasure and want, she still detects that weariness that caught her when he walked through the door.

"It went okay," he sighs. "They want to wait and see how Frozen Heat does."

She pulls back from him, lifts her hand to card her fingers through the short hair at his temple, thumb brushing the ridge of his cheekbone as she winks at him. "That just means you can ask for more money when it's another best-seller."

He laughs, and then his eyes soften as he smiles, tender and adoring. Hands sliding to bracket her waist, he leans in, tilts his forehead to hers. "What did I do to deserve you?"

She tips her face, lets her lips feather across his cheek down to his mouth, a gentle reverence. Fingers curling around his ear, she holds him in place, sips at the heat of him, heart jumping at the way he opens to her, inviting her inside.

"You brought me coffee every day just to see me smile," she whispers when they part, still close enough that his breath tingles against her lips.

He's silent for a moment, his eyes squeezed shut, and she just holds him, keeps him steady the way he's done for her all this time.

When he opens his eyes again, his gaze is clear, a deep ocean blue. Happy.

Oh. She makes him happy.

"I made you a cake."

It comes bursting out of her, unexpected, and he pulls back, eyebrows furrowed and lips parted in surprise.

"Oookay," he drawls, his hands still at her waist. She can feel her cheeks reddening.

He turns his face from hers, glancing around the spotless kitchen. His eyes rove over every surface and then he turns back to her. He's positively twinkling at her. "Let me guess: you eated it?"

"I did what?"

He shakes his head, laughter bubbling up from his chest. She can feel it under her hands, can feel his overflowing joy as it rises up. It pushes a grin out of her.

"Nothing," he says, shaking his head. "It's- on the internet, there are these cats..."

At her lifted eyebrow, he pauses. "I'll explain later. Where's this alleged cake?"

She shakes her head, but lets it go. More important things now, Beckett.

"In the fridge," she answers, unsurprised when he snakes an arm around her back and tugs her in that direction.

He throws open the door, and there it is. It's not perfect, not like her mother's used to be, frosting completely smooth. But when she chances a look at him, there's something undeniably awestruck about his expression.

"Kate," he murmurs, turning bright eyes to her.

She bumps his chest with her shoulder, ducks her head, suddenly shy. "It's just a cake, Castle."

Shaking his head, he pulls her against him until she's plastered to his side. A kiss lands on her forehead, even as he speaks through it. "Not just a cake."

He finds her lips with his then, kisses her slow and sweet, his mouth gentle and giving, and ohhh, she could live here in this moment.

She hears a hum as they separate and she rests her head in the crook of his neck. It's her, she realizes; she's humming into him, content with one of his arms wrapped around her while he holds open the refrigerator door with the other.

His hand strokes her bicep, his fingers trailing over bare skin. She shivers. When she looks up, he stares back at her with suspiciously shiny eyes.

"Castle?" she asks, worry leaking into her voice. "What is it?"

He shakes his head. "It's- nothing."

Poking him in the chest, she pulls out the glare that she's found still retains its effectiveness, even without the weight of a badge and gun behind it.

He lowers his eyes for a moment, and her gaze follows, watching him as he scuffs a toe against the floor.

"It wasn't a great day," he says slowly. "I just- I'm not ready to give Nikki up. There's so much more story to tell."

She nods. She doesn't want him to give Nikki up either, even if she's not sure what that means. He doesn't need an excuse to follow her anymore. Not that there's anywhere to follow her anyway. But still.

"I was really hoping they'd just tell me they wanted me to sign a contract for more books, you know?" he continues, his eyes lifting to hers once more, his expression beseeching.

"I know," she murmurs. "Me too."

"But they- now that we're together and you resigned and..." he trails off. "Black Pawn isn't sure there's more to tell."

"Moonlighting curse," she says, tilting her head as she nods.

He scoffs. "I never believed in that. There's-"

Sliding her hand up his chest, she cups his cheek, five o' clock shadow rough against her palm as she steals his words. "There's so much more."

He nods. "Yes."

"They'll come around," she says softly.

He lifts his hand to cover hers, turning his head to press a kiss into her palm. "I hope so."

There's more. Not just to their story - to Nikki's story as well - but to what's got him so worked up now. But she can be patient. And though she may not have an interrogation room at her disposal, she still has ways to make him talk if need be.

"It would have been enough that you were here," he says after a moment. "When I got home, it would've been enough that you were here. More than I could ask for, really."

A knot forms in her stomach. Happy as she is now, as many of her doubts as he's erased from her mind, he apparently still holds onto a few of his own. She doesn't want that. Doesn't want him question her wanting to be here, doesn't want him questioning his own worth.

"Castle-" she starts, but he cuts her off.

"But here you are, and you looked so glad to see me."

"I *am* glad to see you," she says, corners of her mouth curling up, a blooming happiness unfurling within her. "And I made a cake."

"And you made a cake," he agrees, tugging her closer before he turns to her, confusion etched across his face. "Why did you make a cake? And why are your ears so pink?"

Her ears?

She's blushing. Oh, she can feel it now.

"Kate?" he questions.

She dips her head, tucks her bottom lip under her teeth.

"It's-our-two-week-anniversary," she mumbles quickly, trying to twist out of his grasp.

He catches her, doesn't let her escape. "What?"

She sighs. "Our two week anniversary. It's today."

"It is?"

She nods. And then she looks up at him and finds delight painted across his face, happiness in every line, eyes crinkled. He's just about glowing. He opens his mouth, closes it again. Opens it once more. "It *is* our two week anniversary."

"So I made you a cake," she says, residual embarrassment still coloring her cheeks. "I figured that was better than some garish tie."

He shakes his head, teeth flashing in a pleased grin. "Yeah. Yeah. What kind of cake?"

She laughs then. Leave it to his sweet tooth to dispel her embarrassment.

"Chocolate fudge," she answers. "With a mocha whipped cream frosting. My mom's recipe."

His gaze softens, and he tugs her up for another kiss, all warmth and affection, and she can feel him vibrating with happiness.

"Delicious," he tells her when they break apart. "So, you want me to order dinner? Or should we skip straight to dessert?"

As if his tone of voice isn't enough, he's got that glint in his eyes now that tells her exactly where he's headed with that train of thought. She's pretty sure she'll like where he's headed too.

Squirreling out of his grasp, she ducks under his arm, letting her hips sway a little extra as she saunters away from him.

She turns back halfway to his bedroom, finds him with his mouth open, looking after her. She purses her lips and he runs his tongue slowly over his own, sends a hot curl of heat straight to her belly with the expression on his face when he speaks. "So...dessert then?"

Nodding, she continues on her path, pausing just before she passes through the doorway. "Castle?"

"I know," he calls when she meets his eyes over her shoulder. "I'll bring plates and forks."

"Good," she says. "And the leftover whipped cream is on the bottom shelf."


	2. Chapter 2

He cuts two large slices of the cake then thinks better of it, grabbing the whole platter and balancing the bowl of whipped cream besides.

Oh. Milk. Yes, he likes milk with cake. Kate does too, he's fairly certain.

He- oh, he cannot balance all of this. Ok, think, Castle.

Glancing around the kitchen, his eyes light on the tray Alexis has sometimes used to bring him breakfast in bed when she wanted something. That'll do nicely.

He snags the tray and sets the cake, milk carton, two glasses and the bowl of whipped cream in the middle along with forks and small plates. He wishes he had flowers. Well, anything really to show Kate what this means to him - that two weeks have passed and she's still here, still wants him.

It's surreal.

No flowers though. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'll buy her flowers. Hell, tomorrow he may buy her a whole florist's shop. Or a botanical garden. That'd be good too.

He vaguely registers the sound of movement from beyond his office door, and it kicks him into gear. Cake, milk, plates, forks, glasses, whipped cream. He's set.

The writer lifts the tray carefully, the rich scent of chocolate and coffee wafting up to him. No woman, save his mother and daughter, has baked for him. Nor cooked for him even.

One more thing that makes Kate extraordinary. And he intends to demonstrate the full spectrum of his gratitude.

When he steps through the doorway, he nearly drops the tray. But for her eyes darting toward the items in his hands, he wouldn't have even realized he was still holding the thing. He manages to catch it before it tumbles, holds it as steady as he can when faced with...that.

His eyes travel over the figure reclining in the middle of the bed, nestled against a pile of pillows, one hand behind her head and the other resting lightly against her stomach. Her legs lay crossed at the knee, dainty feet, slender calves, and most of her toned thighs visible to his perusal.

Something not quite sheer covers her from the tops of her thighs to just below her collar bones, embroidered eyelets sprinkled through the fabric hinting at the delectable expanse of skin beneath.

The writer in him scoffs at the cliché, but his brain can only manage the thought that she's a vision in purple. Heliotrope, his minds supplies. But no, that's not it. It's- he's not sure what color it is. He should ask her. All he knows is that it contrasts beautifully with the chocolate brown of his bedspread.

His eyes meet hers then, find her gaze on him, dark and inviting and more than a little amused.

"What color is that?" he blurts out, feels his face flushing as she raises an eyebrow, one corner of her mouth curling up.

"Why, Castle?" she asks, her voice low and raspy and good grief, he's not going to survive this. "You wanna buy a matching one for yourself?"

Her teasing jolts him out of his stupor and he lets out a laugh, loves her all the more for her wit. "Maybe I do. Think I could pull it off?"

Lips pressed together, she nods. "You've got the legs for it."

"Why Miss Beckett," he leers. "Have you been checking out my legs? My well-sculpted calves? My strong, ah, powerful thighs?"

She pulls her hand from her stomach, patting the space beside her. "Right now I'm more interested in what's above your legs."

His lungs suddenly devoid of air, he takes a lurching step forward, almost stumbles in his haste to reach her.

"In your hands, I mean," she says when he's halfway across the room. "I want to see how the cake turned out."

He pauses for a moment, shakes his head at her, at the spark of mischief in her eyes. But then his gazes lands on the creamy skin above the scalloped edges of whatever that lovely thing is that she's wearing and his feet move once more of their own volition.

"Don't drop the cake," she cautions as he hurries toward the bed, her voice still that rough alto that curls inside of him, sends flames licking up his spine. "Wouldn't want all my long, hard hours of work to go to waste."

He slows a little, sets the tray carefully on the bed next to her hip and perches himself on his knees beside it, his eyes trailing over the skin bared to him as well as that still concealed. Which, uh, isn't much. Here, up close, he can see just how sheer the fabric really is, can see just how thin a layer separates him from every inch of her.

Swallowing hard, he lifts a hesitant hand, halts its movements before he can actually touch her. His gaze drifts over the pale purple fabric, and she shifts under his examination, her fingers rising to smooth the slight wrinkles over her hips.

"Lilac," she murmurs, the single word soft as it hangs in the air, in the sudden, electric silence.

He meets her dark eyes. "Hmm?"

"The color," she clarifies. "You asked what color it is."

"It's beautiful," he breathes, his eyes fixed on hers. "You're beautiful, Kate."

A blush sneaks across her chest, a shy smile lifting her lips. "Sit with me?"

The teasing, tempting vixen of a woman has suddenly disappeared, a simple compliment from him replacing her with this softer version. He loves them both.

He settles back then, realizing she's made a place for him too, arranged fluffy pillows to cushion his back. He steals a glance at her, catches her watching him tenderly before she averts her eyes to the tray between them.

"You brought milk," she announces.

He nods. "I did."

"It's a rich cake," she says. "So that's good."

He nods again. Small talk. This is small talk. They've been together two weeks, have spent every night of that timespan in each other's arms. What's more, they've known each other - been partners through thick and thin - for far longer than that. There's no reason for this hesitancy, this self-consciousness. And yet here it is.

Here they sit, shoulder to shoulder on his bed, and she's glad he brought milk because the cake is rich.

Leaning forward quickly, he plates two slices of cake and pours two glasses of milk. He passes one of each to her, along with a fork, and then settles back against the pillows once more.

"To the sweet things in life," he says quietly, smiling as he turns toward her and holds out his glass.

She scrunches her nose, shakes her head. But she clinks her glass with his nonetheless, a gentleness in her eyes. "To the sweet things."

Their knuckles brush as they both set their glasses back on the tray, even that small touch sparking in his veins. Taking a deep breath, he pulls his hand back and picks up the fork resting on the edge of his plate.

The utensil slices smoothly through the thick cream, sinking into the depths of the cake, and he glances up, finds her eyes on him. She's waiting for him.

He looks down long enough to slide his fork under the piece he's cut and then he lifts it to his lips, his gaze drifting back to hers as he opens his mouth, slipping the confection inside.

She lists toward him slightly as his lips close around the cool stainless steel, the tip of her tongue breaking the seal of her lips as he pulls the fork free, dragging every last bit of frosting from the tines.

And then the flavor hits him and he groans. She startles back, but her face breaks into a smile, all flashing teeth and bright eyes. A smile that quickly turns coy, seductive - knowing - when he can't hold back another small sound of appreciation.

"Oh my..." he starts. "Kate."

She presses her lips together. He looks down at the plate, back up at her.

"You should seriously consider the idea of opening a bakery," he tells her.

"Castle-" she says on a laugh.

He shakes his head. "No. Scratch that. Actually I don't think I want you to make this for anyone else."

Her eyebrows rise and he realizes what he's said, how it sounds. "Oh, I didn't- I mean, you're-"

"Relax," she says softly, setting her glass and plate on the tray and reaching toward him with both hands. "I'm not planning on making it for anyone else anytime soon. If ever."

He stills as her left hand cups his cheek, holding him in place while her right thumb coasts along his bottom lip. "This cake is a lot of work. Takes a while to get it just right."

Letting out a soft 'oh' of understanding, he watches as she pulls her hand back, her frosting covered thumb slipping slowly between her lips.

Her eyes stay on his through the entire movement, and then she reaches down, scoops up her plate, and digs into her own piece of cake as if that wasn't one of the sexiest things he's ever seen her do while still clothed. Mostly clothed. Well, sort of clothed.

She eats with gusto. He loves that about her - that she's not shy about her enjoyment of food, not timid about how much she can pack in, though he's never certain where she hides it on her lithe frame.

But he knows she got plenty of exercise as a cop: training in the precinct gym, chasing down suspects. And he knows how much exercise she's gotten in the past two weeks since she resigned. Knows because he's gotten a fair bit of exercise himself.

She looks up just then, and he's certain she can read his mind - or at least the expression on his face - because her eyes narrow as she takes another bite.

"Don't like it?" she murmurs around the fork.

He shakes his head. Nods it. Shakes it again. Mother of- she's got him completely discombobulated and all she's doing is eating a piece of cake.

Eating a piece of cake while sitting on his bed.

Eating a piece of cake while sitting on his bed wearing something that certainly doesn't pass for a nightgown.

He glances at her plate and then at his. She's more than halfway through her piece while he's only just started.

Not that that's a problem. She could always have more.

Still, the way she's looking at him he thinks he'd better get going. He drops his eyes to his own plate, cuts a large chunk with the fork and shovels it into his mouth, barely even chewing before he tries to swallow.

Predictably, it's too much. A brief coughing fit finds her nudging his glass of milk into his hand, pulling the plate away from him.

He takes a long pull from the glass, the cool liquid washing down the rich cake, closes his eyes briefly as he recovers. When he opens them again, amusement and sympathy war in her gaze.

"Bit off more than you could chew?" she offers, and he splutters, coughing fit returning.

Oh, she's wicked.

She pats him on the back and then sets their plates and glasses back on the tray.

"Let's save the rest of this for later," she says, muscles rippling under her skin as she picks up the tray, leans over him to set it on the nightstand.

Her chest brushes his and she moves back to her place, and then he sees it on the bed between them.

She's left the bowl of whipped cream.


	3. Chapter 3

She loves seeing him like this - completely flustered, affected by her, the façade of suave millionaire stripped away leaving simply the man who loves her. Who is in love with her, body and soul.

Following his gaze to the bowl of whipped cream between them, she allows herself a small smile.

He clears his throat. "Did you- did you want me to put that on the nightstand as well?"

Chuckling, she shakes her head and leans forward. She dips her index finger into the bowl, swirls it around a bit, turns her head to let her eyes meet his. "Actually, I thought we might find another use for this."

"Another use?" he asks, voice an octave higher than usual. "Aside from eating it, you mean?"

"Oh, I never said we wouldn't be eating it," she husks. "I just think the cake has enough frosting, don't you?"

His eyes dart toward the already forgotten tray and the half-eaten slices of rich, chocolaty goodness that she'd prepared for him. She smirks, watching as he studies the plates for a moment.

"Yes," he finally says. "Yes, I think you put on just the right amount of frosting."

As he turns back toward her, she moves closer. Surprise leaps in his eyes, and she can tell he barely manages not to jump away at the sudden, unexpected nearness of her.

"You on the other hand," she rumbles, pointing her whipped cream covered finger at his chest, "could use a little more frosting."

He smirks. "I'm not sweet enough as it is?"

She hums low in her throat, watches as his eyes darken, his pupils dilating. "Plenty sweet, but this is mocha-flavored, and you know how I like my coffee."

Not waiting for an answer, she swipes her finger across the tan skin at his clavicle, the narrow swath left bare by the open collar of his dark green shirt.

"Kate," he gasps, his hand rising to cup her elbow, tugging her closer.

She leans in, needs no further help from him to close the distance between them, her mouth covering his warm skin, tongue scooping up the rich cream. The flavors mingle on her tastebuds - coffee and sugar and cream and Richard Castle.

His large hands claw at her sides, fingers clenching in the thin fabric as she works her mouth at the exposed part of his chest and then trails upward across the muscles of his throat until her teeth can scrape against the tender skin just below his ear.

"Delicious," she whispers, one hand braced on his chest as she takes the soft lobe of his ear between her lips, laving it.

He whimpers, actually whimpers, and she can feel his heart racing under her palm.

"Good-"

Whatever he was going to say gets cut off, her mouth covering his.

He doesn't hesitate to let her in, has never hesitated since that first night, and she's grateful for it. Grateful for the way he takes from her and gives back in return. Grateful for the way he blends his strength and tenderness, firm strokes and soft teasing and all the things that drive her crazy.

Her fingers walk across his chest, one hand at his side, bracing her weight while the other commences work on his buttons.

She's an expert at this already - undoing his buttons blind. It's too hard to break from his mouth until she has something else to replace it.

His tongue strokes against the roof of her mouth just as she finishes the last button, and she presses against him, the smooth slide of the sheer fabric between their bodies drawing a moan from her lips. He smiles into the kiss, releases a little puff of air that might even be a laugh.

Reaching behind her with her now unoccupied hand, Kate uses two fingers to scoop up another dollop of whipped cream. He's far too distracted to notice, not with her teeth rasping against the slight stubble at his jaw.

She arches, fusing their mouths together swiftly, drawing a guttural grunt from him as their middles meet too. And then she presses her fingers to the slight dip in his abdomen just above his belly button.

"Cold!" he cries out, his spine curving involuntarily away from the sensation, forcing his hips harder into hers.

She groans at the pressure but drops her mouth from his chin where her lips landed when he jerked against her.

His gasp of surprise mellows to heavy panting as her lips trail down his neck to his smooth chest, detouring from the center to slick her tongue across one flat nipple before continuing on her path. He inhales sharply when she reaches the cream, sucks it into her mouth with an obscene slurp.

"You're going to kill me," he murmurs as she nips at his skin.

His fingers skim against her forehead, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, and she looks up, finds a heady blend of lust and worship swirling in his eyes. She presses her lips to his flesh, soft now, whispers against his skin. "I hope not."

He leans down then, but doesn't kiss her as she expects he will. Instead, he curls his body over hers, and she's not entirely sure what he's doing until she feels his fingers at her thighs, hooking under the scalloped edges of the light purple lace.

Slowly, the backs of his fingers brushing gently against her the whole way up, he pulls the garment over her body. She lifts up, makes it a little easier for him, stretches her arms over her head.

Her hair billows around her as he pulls it away, and when she meets his gaze again, a deep purple thong her only covering now, his eyes are on hers, all dark mischief.

He lunges toward her, presses against her until she rests on her back with his hips nestled securely between her thighs. His body rising above her, braced with one arm, she sees his other hand dragging the curiously untoppled bowl of whipped cream up the bedspread.

"Your turn," he whispers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Please note the rating change - as if you all didn't know where this was going... ;)**

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There's something feral about him, something wild and graceful in the way he moves, something dangerous in the darkness of his eyes. Her heart thuds hard in her chest, loud enough to her ears that she wonders if he's heard it.

But as he dips into the bowl, looks up at her with the thick cream mounded on his fingertip, she sees the spark of happiness, the hint of his generous heart peeking through the curtains of desire.

The thumping against her ribs settles. She's always safe with him.

And then he flicks his finger and the cream lands with a plop on her breast and she shrieks, heart pounding anew for entirely different reasons as he follows the slide of the icy sweet confection with heat of his wicked mouth.

He engulfs her, tongue slick and burning against her chilled skin.

She arches into his touch, and he brings his hand up to curl around her side, holding her in place as he works at her.

It's a study in contrasts - the cool smoothness of the cream, the rough warmth of his stubbled chin, the molten heat of his mouth as he hollows his cheeks.

She shuts her eyes at the sensation, almost too much already, but his fingers tighten at her side, his nails pressing against the soft skin at her ribs, recently mended but still tender, and she opens her eyes again, finds that she needs to watch him. He's been gentle with her as the bruises have faded, careful in his ministrations, his eyes ever on hers, seeking her approval, putting her comfort first.

It's no surprise, really. Not after the past four years.

But now it seems - though his touch is no less tender - he's abandoning the kid gloves. His teeth scrape across puckered skin, sucking her into his mouth, and she moans, bucks her hips against his stomach. He bites down, gently still, but it's enough to have her hand reaching up to grip the back of his head, fingers tangling in the soft brown strands of his hair.

With one final swipe of his tongue, he lifts his mouth, lifts his eyes to her face at the same time.

Oh, he's enjoying this.

"So," he says, voice deep, rough, sending shivers up her spine. "Whipped cream frosting. It's delicious."

She hums her agreement, fingers drifting down to run along the top of his ear, back and forth. "You like it? Not quite as sweet as buttercream."

He nods, his chin bumping lightly against the swell of her breast. "You should show me how to make it sometime."

Her laugh comes out breathless. Only Castle would want to discuss cooking techniques while he's got her bare and needy and arching beneath him.

"Maybe I will," she answers carding her fingers through his hair. "Or maybe you should try some more, see if you can't figure out the ingredients all on your own."

He nods solemnly, blue eyes twinkling brightly, the corners of his mouth trying not to rise in his delight. She knows that look - it's the one he reserves for her when he's most pleased, the man trying to be dignified in his pleasure even as the happy little boy struggles to get out. She loves that look on him.

"So?" she nudges him when he doesn't move for a moment, just continues to stare at her. "Are you up for the challenge or not?"

He smirks. "Oh, I'm definitely up for anything when it comes to you. You should know that by now, Kate."

Shifting beneath him, she draws a low groan from his throat. "Believe me, I do."

She takes advantage of his moment of distraction to slide her hands beneath the dangling lapels of his shirt, her palms coasting over his shoulders and down his thick biceps. Halfway down he takes the hint, pushes up on his elbows to help her, slipping the cuffs over his wrists and tossing the forest green garment unceremoniously to the floor.

Kneeling between her legs, his eyes drift over her body as she watches him.

It's still new, this thing between them, still a blaze of fire every time, and when she sets a hand at his bare waist, traces the lines of his muscles with a single finger, she hears his sharp intake of breath, sees the contraction of his abdomen under her touch.

His hand covers hers, squeezes briefly, and then lets go. She's not sure if it's encouragement or warning or both, but she lifts her other hand, allows them to meet at the buckle of his belt.

He watches her, and a thrill of pleasure races up her spine.

"Kate," he groans when her palm brushes against him as she lowers his zipper.

She can see the need in his eyes, a bright heat, and then he's leaning down, lifting her up to hold her flush against him, chest to chest.

One hand spans her lower back while the other clasps her neck, thumb against her jawbone as he tilts her to the right angle.

She's known since those first kisses more than a year ago how lethal his mouth can be, how he can leave her breathless with the press of his lips, nearly incoherent with a twist of his tongue.

An extra year of wanting, two weeks of practice, and his technique has only improved.

She pushes her body into his, feels her breasts flattening against his chest, their centers meeting, silk to silk and all delicious pressure.

Her fingers clench briefly against his shoulder blades and then she drops her hands to his waistband, forcing the dress pants over his hips to pool around his knees. Reluctant as she is to separate their bodies even the slightest, she pulls her hips away and his boxers follow.

He chuckles into her mouth, the sound singing through her bones, and she thrusts her hips into his, the thin barrier of her underwear the only remaining barrier between them.

"Eager much?" he murmurs as he pulls his mouth from hers, twinkling down at her when she opens her eyes.

She doesn't answer, just presses an open mouth kiss to his throat, listens to the hiss of his pleasure, distracts him while she reaches to the side, hand fumbling for a moment until she finds the bowl.

Two fingers delve into the cream as she kisses him, as she drives him crazy if the sounds he's making are any indication.

She pulls back at last, and his eyes drift open, dark, hazy with lust.

"Kate?" he roughs, his voice thick.

Lifting her hand, she presses her fingers to his chest.

He squirms at the cold. "Sh-"

The word drowns in his throat as he gasps, her mouth dropping to cover his nipple, tongue flicking at the hard peak. Her fingers tighten at his waist, keep him where she wants him while she cleans away the whipped cream, savoring the taste of the coffee and him. But then he's pushing on her shoulder, laying her down beneath him.

And oh shit, that's cold.

Her back arches at his touch, his whipped cream covered fingers pressing her back against the mattress.

She looks up, finds him smirking above her.

"You know," he murmurs, his smile in his voice. "You make me very happy."

He means the words, there's no question of that. But there's something more, something teasing and mischievous and so very _Castle_ about the way he says them.

Dropping her eyes from his, she lets her gaze fall to where his fingers rest against her side. Two dollops of whipped cream rest just under her breasts and an arc of the sweet substance curves beneath her belly button.

He's drawn a smiley face on her. A smiley face.

She laughs. "Richard Castle, did you-"

And then his mouth is on her and she forgets altogether what she was going to say, lost to the wet heat of his tongue, the sharpness of his teeth against her skin, the way the hand that isn't holding her in place is dragging her panties rapidly over her hips.

Her hand flies to his head, fingers fisting in his hair, and he looks up for a moment, all crinkled eyes and dark knowing.

She can't say a word, can't find the words, and though he's the famous author, she's always prided herself on her eloquence, on knowing the right thing to say in any situation.

Except this one, it seems.

He takes her silence for encouragement - as if she'd really discourage him at this point - and settles his mouth between her thighs, whipped cream forgotten for now.

She's grateful for that, isn't sure she could have handled the cold on top of everything else. His tongue is devastation enough, swirling and sliding and-

She shudders against him, so close, so very close, and then he hums or chuckles or something - she's not even sure at this point, can't really bring herself to care - and her eyes slam shut, her hips canting upwards into him as her whole body trembles.

He doesn't stop, his hands slipping beneath her, holding her up as he feasts on her. It's too good - lips and teeth and tongue and suction and pressure and she can't. She closes her fingers around his ear, tender but firm, and he slows. Leaves his mouth on her, but gentles it, soothes her, brings her down gradually.

Her fingers loosen their grip on his hair, drifting to stroke against his temple. He lifts his eyes to hers, and her heart constricts.

"Come here," she murmurs hoarsely, her throat tight.

Raising himself on his forearms, he slides up her body, the skin to skin contact making her shiver, her nerves still too sensitive.

His blue eyes shine down at her, and she cranes her neck, presses her lips to his, opening beneath him, tasting whipped cream and chocolate and coffee and herself, but underneath it all - him.

The man she loves.

"You know," she says softly, her fingers feathering against his cheekbone. "You make me very happy too."

He laughs, drops a kiss on her nose. "I think I just did."

Curling her arms around his neck, she tugs him down, forces him to settle his weight on top of her, a warmth she's discovered she loves. He tethers her to reality somehow, this man whose imagination carries both of them away so often.

He nuzzles against her ear, breath warm on her neck. "Kate?"

"Hmm?"

"Not that it wasn't delicious," he whispers, lifting up slightly to meet her eyes, "but that whipped cream was cold."

She feels the corners of her mouth rising, and his brows furrow before he speaks again. "What?"

Shaking her head, she slides her hands down to push against his chest. "Let me up."

He rolls to her side immediately, but when she gets up from the bed, looks back at him, his face is a mask of confusion.

"Wait, where are you-," he starts, catching her wrist gently with his fingers. "Kate-"

Laughing, she leans down to cut him off with a swift kiss. "Relax, Castle. I'll be right back."

She's halfway to the bedroom door when she turns to wink at him over her shoulder, taking in the awed, bewildered, completely in love expression on his face. "We made sundaes the other night, remember?"

He nods. "I remember."

"Wasn't there some hot fudge left over?"

* * *

_the end_


End file.
